What If the Truth Was Never the Point?

How Meaning, Memory, and Belief Shape Our Lives

The Chasms That Divide Us

I am well into the second draft of my novel, and I have found something surprising happening. Something I did not expect.

I spent three or four months planning the story before I ever wrote the first word. I developed the characters, built the plot, and laid out the structure. It was clear in my mind where the story was going before I typed the first word.

Now, eighteen months into the project, the characters, who were once little more than words in an outline, suddenly feel real, with their own thoughts, beliefs, and motivations. As odd as it may sound, they are now telling me where the story is going. Sure, I can ignore them and force my will. I am, after all, the one with the fingers on the keyboard. But I have this strange sense that they know the real story better than I do.

At the center of the novel lies a question I had not intended: does the objective truth of an event matter as much as the meaning we assign to it afterward?

The story begins with two teenagers, each struggling to find his way in the world, and their interpretations of an event that shapes both of their futures. When I began writing this story, I had a very clear understanding of what happened that night. Yet here I am, a year and a half later, realizing that I did not know the truth nearly as well as I thought I did.

How can that be, I have asked myself. But when I go back and read what I wrote in that pivotal first scene, I can suddenly see the ambiguity I had unintentionally woven into the narrative.

The more I sit with it, the more I realize that ambiguity may be the truth. Not because there are no facts, but because human beings are rarely as clear, certain, or consistent as we want them to be. Especially in moments of pain.

My two central characters, now in middle age, still have a long way to go, so I will leave their story for another day. But regardless of where this novel takes me, it is already teaching me that what we believe about the defining moments in our lives often matters far more than what actually happened.

And perhaps that is not only true of the defining moments. Maybe it is equally true of the ordinary ones as well.

I think most of us would agree that two people can experience the same event and walk away with completely different perspectives on what happened and what it meant. Those different interpretations can shape everything that follows. They can influence relationships, fears, regrets, and even a person's sense of self for years.

In an earlier essay, The Mirror is Curved, I wrote that "I am what I think," and I am beginning to realize how true that may be.

Because if our thoughts shape our interpretations, and our interpretations shape our beliefs, then those beliefs begin to shape our identity. We start to see ourselves, other people, and the world through a lens that can become so familiar we no longer recognize it as only one possible version of reality.

I think this is an important understanding in the polarized world we live in these days. It is so easy to attribute motive to a behavior. To judge someone for what we think they meant rather than invest the energy to ask, or if that is not possible, to ask ourselves: what else might that mean?

I was reminded of this recently when I posted online about a prayer from Pete Hegseth that called for violence against those who "deserve no mercy." The words made me sick. Some like-minded friends echoed my reaction, but another person saw strength and righteousness in them. We looked at the same words and came away with entirely different meanings.

As I write this, I find myself struggling to remain open-minded, even while writing an essay about the importance of doing exactly that. It reminds me how deeply our beliefs become woven into our sense of self. It would be easy for either of us to insist the other was wrong. But in the end, what would that solve beyond making us both more certain of what we already believed?

Perhaps we are both better served by trying to understand the other person's perspective. That does not mean we forfeit our own beliefs. But a little less certainty, and a little more curiosity, might serve us both.

Perhaps this is an odd reflection for someone who graduated from VMI, a school built around a rigid and deeply respected honor code. I still believe truth matters. Facts matter. But life has taught me that when it comes to human relationships, memory, and emotional pain, things are rarely as simple as true or false.

Certainty can be one of the worst traits we bring into any relationship. The moment we stop asking questions is the moment our view of reality begins to blur. Yet at times, we are all afraid to challenge the beliefs we hold so dearly because doing so risks changing the road before us, the path that had always seemed so clear.

Science and psychology support this idea. Memory is not a recording device. It is reconstructive. We do not simply remember events as they happened. We reinterpret them over time, often in ways that protect us, justify us, or reinforce what we already believe about ourselves and other people.

My experience writing this novel has made this so clear to me. By holding the wheel a little more loosely and allowing the characters to reveal their true selves, I am discovering a deeper truth about life. The absolute truth is often far less important than our ability to recognize how easily our understanding can become distorted, just as we so often assume distortion in the views of others.

Perhaps that is why certainty can be so dangerous. We are often most certain about the stories we most need to believe.

So, as I struggle to make sense of Hegseth’s prayer, let me offer one of my own.

May I find the courage to question even my most deeply held beliefs, and the humility to change them when they no longer withstand honest scrutiny.

If this resonated with you, please let me know by clicking the like or heart button below. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Send me a note or add a comment.